fioragirl's Blog

As Fiora bustles about the house, attending to her morning chores, the sound of an approaching motor is heard from outdoors. The doorbell sounds.

“I wonder who that could be?”

She peers through the window and notices a brown UPS truck parked in the driveway.

“I’m coming!”

Fiora is all dolled up in a lemon yellow chiffon dress this morning, with its white petticoat just peeking underneath. A bright red sash encircles her waist and a cute red lace band adorns her wavy/curly chestnut hair. Short white lace fingerless gloves cover her hands but her feet are bare. She opens the front door. A towering figure is before her.

“Yes, I’m Fiora M_______. A package for me? Why, I wonder what that could be? Thank you so much.”

She accepts the parcel, her eyes steadily taking in the sight of the tall uniformed man before her. She notes his name on his shirt label.

“Victor? My, what a powerful name! Won’t you come in, Victor? You have many more deliveries to make? But just for a sip of coffee. Oh, please come in!”

Fiora notices that Victor is scrutinizing her face. Victor, after much hesitation, agrees to come in, but only for a minute. He crosses the threshold. Fiora shuts and very quietly latches the front door behind him.

“What’s your pleasure, Victor?” Flora blushes. “I mean, I have espresso and nescafè; or how about a shot of anisette? Some Strega, perhaps? Just follow me.”

Fiora’s dress rustles as she sashays down the hall entryway and escorts him into the parlor where bright sunlight is pouring in through the sheer lace pink curtains. Victor follows warily behind, continually glancing at his watch and furtively noticing the French doors leading onto an outside deck. Fiora follows his gaze.

“Yes, isn’t it a lovely view? The woods completely surround the house, ensuring much needed privacy. And we have a gazebo in back that is used for special occasions.”

She directs Victor to a teal sofa, covered with peacock-embossed pillows.
“Won’t you sit? I’ll be back in a jiff.”

And she quickly disappears. …Intermingled with the sounds of cabinet doors opening and closing, Fiora’s singing can be heard from the kitchen:
“He met me in a club down in old Soho
Where you drink champagne and it tastes just like cherry-cola …”

Fiora reappears carefully balancing a silver tray on which is an ornate gold-leaf serving set with two demitasse teacups surrounded by various miniature pastries. She bends and leans forward, offering a not-so-subtle view of her décolletage.

“Please sample some of my sfogliatelle, Victor.”

This time it is Victor who blushes. He recovers and quickly fingers a pastry and grabs a cup from the tray.

“My, you certainly know, and take, what you want, Victor!”.

Fiora dreamily eyes his thick, hairy arms and legs.

“I love those cute brown shorts. I bet you’ve developed strong muscles carrying all those heavy boxes. And what large hands you have!” Flora blushes again.

Victor starts drinking his coffee but then abruptly begins to cough violently, gasping for air.

“Oh my, are you alright? Dear me, I’m afraid I may have added too much Strega to your espresso. I’m sorry.”

Victor recovers, nervously glances at his watch, when, suddenly, the sound of a telephone is heard ringing.

“Just one second, Victor.”

Fiora returns to the kitchen to answer the phone.

“Is that you, FiFi?”

It’s Fiora’s friend Filomena. Fiora and Filomena are cousins, kissing cousins.

“…that’s two hours in the oven at 375 degrees for the melanzana and thirty minutes for the anchovy cakes. Listen, FiFi, I have to go now. I have a live one here. Call you back! Ciao.”

Fiora rushes back to the parlor to find that the French doors have been flung wide open. She hears the loud revving of an engine and looks outside to see a burst of smoke and a brown truck tearing out of the driveway. Tears well up in Fiora’s brown eyes; her shoulders begin to tremble. and she sighs in disappointment …but moments later her face brightens, and lovely Fiora reflects:

“I’m sure the Sears repairman who’s scheduled to stop by this afternoon to fix the Frigidaire will just love my anchovy cakes.

… to be continued